Amendment
by akahannah
Summary: Draco hates Harry and Harry hates Draco … right? Featuring a vengeful Draco, a persistent Harry and an uneasy truce that might just be something else entirely. HD, sixth year, slash.


The pre-story quote is from _Leave Me Alone_by Razorlight.

**AMENDMENT**

_Leave me alone._

_Just leave me alone._

_What don't you understand?_

_Leave me alone._

_What don't you understand?_

_What part of that don't you understand?_

_Just leave me alone._

_Leave me alone._

Something has changed.

This year, it's him who comes and looks for you. He finds you alone, on your way back from the Prefects' carriage.

No Crabbe or Goyle. No Weasley or Granger.

Just you and him.

Just the way you've been planning all summer.

Until he attacks first, and you find yourself backed against the wall and bewildered at how this could ever have happened.

He hasn't even pulled his wand.

"Father still in prison, Malfoy?"

He smiles nastily as your face begins to grow hot and flushed. You retaliate with an equally cheap shot.

"Parents still dead, Potter?"

The mention of his deceased family is usually enough to send him into an unholy rage, but Potter doesn't even flinch. He keeps on smiling that unnerving smile, so _knowing_, like he's in on some cruel joke and you're the punchline.

"I haven't forgotten what I said at the end of last term," you say, eyes narrowed. "I meant every word of it. I'll _have_ you, Potter."

You are so enraged you are actually shaking with it.

Despite the fact that he is two inches shorter, Potter somehow manages to look down on you. "I look forward to it," he smirks, and squeezes past you even though the corridor is quite wide enough for him to pass without doing so.

Yes, something has definitely changed.

Usually it's you leaving him angry and frustrated.

The Sorting Hat sings of unity between the four Houses again this year and you want to laugh, but when you look up there is nobody who will laugh with you. Not now your father is in Azkaban, a known Death Eater.

You push food around your plate and try to ignore the stares, particularly the ones from the Gryffindor table.

Particularly the ones from a certain person.

What the _hell_ is his problem?

Potter. It's all _his_ fault. Him and his stupid friends.

Dumbledore stands up and drones on about inter-house relations. It's fucking rich, coming from the man who goes out of his way to undermine the Slytherins at every turn.

Potter catches your eye and raises his goblet in a mock toast. Dumbledore's golden boy is as prejudiced as the rest of them.

Inter-house unity? _Fuck off._

For five years, you've been waging a one-man war against Harry Potter.

This year it ends.

As expected, you're dropped from the Quidditch team. It's so unfair you can hardly believe it's happening, but what can you do? _Go crying to Snape?_ Hardly.

It's probably for the best anyway. Nobody really speaks to you now.

You'd be depressed if it wasn't such a waste of energy that you can put to use hating Potter. You hate him so much that sometimes when you see him, you actually want to be sick.

He watches you, and you let him.

It seems only fair, because you're watching him too. Sizing him up, searching for a weakness. Looking for anything you can turn to your advantage when the time comes.

You discover that Potter bites his nails when he thinks nobody's looking. He regularly falls asleep in all his classes except Potions, and even the teachers pretend not to notice. Most of the time he is only feigning interest in what his friends say, particularly that bore Granger.

You don't know if any of these pieces of information will come in useful.

All the same, you sort of like knowing them.

Sometimes you bite your nails too.

You are too slow packing up your bag after Potions one afternoon. When you look up, you realise with a sinking feeling that you and he are the only ones left in the room.

Potter closes the door and walks over to your desk. You stand there, feeling stupid. You should have anticipated this.

"Is it true?" he asks.

"Is what true?" you snap. If he's going to hex you, can't he just get on with it?

"They're saying you're off the Quidditch team. Is it true?"

You shrug, trying to look like you don't care, then spoil the illusion when you feel your face grow warm. "What's it to you, Potter?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Just wondering."

"Come to gloat, have you? Get lost, Potter."

You pick up your bag and shove past him, your shoulder connecting sharply with his. He reaches out and grabs your arm and you whirl round to glare at him.

"Malfoy –" he begins, but you aren't having any of it.

"Don't you ever touch me."

Your voice is soft, but this doesn't conceal your anger. The Slytherin, full of venom.

You are the one who storms out of the room, and he is the one who is left standing there.

But you still can't help feeling like he's just won again.

And you don't even know what the game was.

Two days later, you are sitting in History of Magic class when a note falls into your lap. You open it under the desk, keeping half an eye on Binns.

The handwriting is untidy and unfamiliar, but you instantly know who it belongs to.

_Midnight. The Quidditch pitch. Bring your broom._

You glance over at Potter, but he is concentrating on taking notes from the blackboard and paying you no attention.

Of course you're going. It doesn't even occur to you not to.

Half an hour after the agreed time, you show up.

It takes you a while to spot him in the darkness, flying in slow, lazy circles around the perimeter of the Quidditch pitch. When he notices you, he comes in to land.

"You turned up," he says, sounding more than a little surprised.

"What exactly is this about?" you ask, by way of a greeting.

He pulls a Snitch from his pocket and holds it up, its wings fluttering feebly against his clenched fist.

"You and me. None of that Quidditch bullshit, just Seeker versus Seeker. What do you say?"

"I say I haven't been on a broom for six months, Potter. You've got an unfair advantage."

He smiles that knowing smile of his and looks you up and down.

"Maybe you're right, _Draco._ You do look really out of condition."

Almost immediately, you're on your broom and kicking off against the slightly squelchy turf. The rush of air against your face feels wonderful, and instantly you remember just how much you miss this.

"Coming, Potter?" you yell. "Or are you scared you'll get beaten by someone who's so _out of condition._"

Then he's eye to eye with you, hovering over the pitch. When he lets go of the Snitch, it doesn't vanish, but instead leaves a tiny trail of red and gold sparks in its wake.

Gryffindor colours. How typical.

Both of you give chase, cheating like mad. He shoves you so hard you nearly fall off your broom, so you retaliate by setting fire to the end of his. Eventually he pushes your hand out of the way to catch the Snitch, like so many times before, but it doesn't matter because it wasn't about that, not really.

You walk back up to the castle together, not speaking but not exactly ignoring each other either. This is the longest you've spent with somebody since school began.

Then you realise – all those opportunities to take him out with nobody watching and you made no attempt whatsoever.

_Shit._

"You still going to have me?" he asks, as you part in the entrance hall. How exactly does he manage to make your violent threat sound so _obscene?_

"Fuck you, Potter."

There's as much malice in your voice as you can muster, but it's a lot less than usual. It isn't until you get back to your dormitory that you can really feel properly angry towards him again.

Very strange.

Next day he takes the empty seat beside you in Potions, and you let him.

Potter is clearly a very powerful dark wizard. How else can the bizarre effect he has on you be explained?

When he is not around, you can cheerfully imagine a thousand and one gruesome and creative ways to kill him. Many involving pointy sticks and hours of pain.

But when he is in the vicinity, you have the terrible feeling that you are actually – God forbid – starting to if not_ like_ him, then at least find him _tolerable_.

He's quiet and honest and really doesn't seem to have any kind of agenda, which is a refreshing change from life in the snake pit where everyone is out for themselves and to hell with everyone else.

You've never known anyone like this in your life.

But it's still all his fault, and you won't let yourself forget it.

The last weekend before the Christmas holidays, he comes to find you in the library where you are working on a History of Magic essay

"You're coming to Hogsmeade."

It's an order, not a request.

"Fuck off, Potter."

It's cold, and you have work to do, and you are _not _going to be seen out in public with Harry bloody Potter.

Ten minutes later you're walking beside him along the winding path to Hogsmeade and wondering resentfully exactly how this happened.

You do all the usual Hogsmeade stuff – Zonko's, Honeydukes, that new broomstick shop. If people are giving you strange looks, you don't really care because frankly Potter has more to lose from being seen with you than you have from being seen with him.

When you get so cold that neither of you can feel your feet anymore, you go to the Hog's Head because the barman doesn't ask for I.D. You sit at a table in a dark corner and drink butterbeer laced with firewhisky. After four or five, you begin to thaw out. You also begin to feel quite drunk.

As you sit there talking about nothing in particular, he suddenly winces, clutching at his head with his eyes tightly closed. After a moment, this passes and he opens his eyes again, rubbing at his forehead like it itches.

"You ok, scarhead?" you ask, and you actually almost care.

He is looking a little pale as he explains that his scar usually only hurts when the Dark Lord is feeling something very strongly.

You wrinkle your nose at the idea. "Can I touch it?"

"What?"

"Your scar. Can I touch it?"

"You freak!" says Potter. There's a strange look in his eyes, as though he wants to say something else.

But he doesn't say no.

You reach out and brush your fingertips across the marked skin. He quivers a little, and you figure maybe you're hurting him.

_Good._

Most people go home for the holidays, but not you and not Potter. On Christmas morning, he turns up at the Slytherin table with a book-shaped package. You hand him a similarly shaped one that is, of course, much more nicely wrapped. Just because you hate somebody doesn't mean you can't put in a little effort.

You tear the wrapping paper off his gift immediately.

_The Hundred Deadliest Potions_

"Thought it would help with the having of me," he says cheerfully.

"Watch your food, Potter. That's all I'm saying."

"'S ok. I'll get Colin Creevey to test it for me," he says, sounding amused by the idea.

As he unwraps the gift you gave him, you wonder who exactly this Colin Creevey is.

_Curse Scars and Insanity – Is There A Link?_

"Just what I always wanted!" he exclaims, actually looking really pleased.

You suppose he doesn't usually get many presents, because his Muggle relatives are horrible, and everybody knows how tight Gryffindors are with their money. That is, those of them who have money.

"You're on the slippery slope to madness," you say cheerfully, and he laughs and rolls his eyes like the two of you are _friends_ or something.

It's strange. When he goes back to the Weasel and Granger at the Gryffindor table, the usual hot swoop of hatred in your stomach feels almost like envy as you watch them.

Maybe _you're_ the one on the slippery slope to madness.

Potter isn't just a powerful dark wizard – he is also a highly effective weapon of mass distraction. It's just not possible to get anything done when he's around. But then, you suppose, anything is more interesting than that History of Magic essay you still haven't finished.

"I'm bored. Let's go for a walk," he says.

The snow is thick on the ground outside, and your boots make a pleasing crunching sound as you leave the school grounds, taking a left instead of a right at the Hogsmeade crossroads because Potter wants to know what's up that track.

A whole lot of nothing, as it happens. Some rocks and a dead end.

"Let me get this straight. We just walked for over an hour in the freezing cold to find _this?_"

Potter actually laughs. The bastard. "Well, we did have a nice walk."

"Nice walk? _I'll give you_ _nice walk!"_

Your snowball is perfectly aimed. It hits him squarely between the eyes, knocking his glasses askew.

"Hey!" he bellows, and lunges at you. He is much stronger, and manages to get you in a headlock, rubbing snow into your hair, cackling in a manner that can only be described as _evil_ as you struggle and yell.

Ater a while, you manage to trip him up and pin him to the ground, stuffing as much snow as you can down the front of his jacket. Then he gives you a dead leg, and takes advantage of your incapacitation to reverse your positions. Now he is sitting astride you, pushing you down into the snowdrift.

"You're such a weakling, Malfoy," he taunts, grinning down at you.

The back of your clothes are wet, and the cold is soaking through to your skin, but you barely notice.

He is so close that you can see the snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. Your heart is pounding so hard you think it's going to burst out of your chest.

"Draco …" he breathes. He isn't smiling now.

You know exactly what he is going to do before he does it.

It seems like an eternity before his lips touch yours. And then they do, and they're all chapped from the cold, but that's okay because yours are too. He is fumbling, unsure, and that's okay too because so are you.

Your brain seems to have partially shut down. You know it's still there, but it doesn't seem to be sending the right messages through. Potter is kissing you and you're kissing him back, and you really don't want him to stop.

That's wrong, _right_?

When he pulls away from you and sits up, you are both shivering with excitement and cold and fear. You didn't know it was possible to feel so much all at the same time.

Potter watches you warily, as though unsure how you are going to react. Because of course you _hate_ him, and you're pretty sure he hates you too.

But you don't hate doing this.

You bare your teeth, something like a smile, and pull him down to you again. This time, his hands are tangled in your hair, and yours are all over him, and tiny gasps and moans escape from both of you as you lick and bite at each other's mouths.

"We should get back," he murmurs at last, speaking against your lips because you can't quite seem to tear yourselves apart.

He helps you to your feet, and you both dust yourselves off, avoiding looking at each other. It's like this was some kind of dream … a very weird but not entirely unpleasant dream.

Now you've woken up.

By the time you make it back to the castle, the sky is growing dark. The Headmaster is waiting for you in the entrance hall.

At first you figure it's because you're both ridiculously late back. Then you have a wild moment of panic where you think maybe he knows what you were both just doing. But it isn't that at all.

Dumbledore's expression is very grave.

"Mr Malfoy, will you accompany me to my office? Harry, I would like to speak with you after dinner."

Without a backwards glance you leave Potter and follow the Headmaster up to his office. You've been in here a few times, and it's never been pleasant. Dumbledore may look like a benevolent old fellow, but he's rather scary when he's angry.

You wonder what you've done to offend him this time.

"Please sit down, Draco," says Dumbledore, and you think: _Strange, he's never used my first name before. _

He tells you that there was a break-in at Azkaban. Your father is dead, and it was the Dark Lord who killed him.

And suddenly, all you can feel is the cold seeping through your wet clothes.

Narcissa doesn't want you to go home for the funeral. She says she thinks you'll find it too _upsetting_, as though you are five years old and can't understand why daddy won't be coming home any more..

She's probably right. Not about the five year-old part, but about not wanting you to be there.

There will be a great many Death Eaters and Dark sympathisers at the graveside. Maybe even the Dark Lord, enveloped in some kind of disguise.

All of them pretending to be _so sorry_ your father is dead.

And all of them glad of it.

_Hypocrites. _

_Murderers._

You hope they rot in hell. Every last one of them.

When you come face to face with him again, it's in the trophy room in the middle of the night. You're looking at the engraved plaque listing previous Head Boys; looking at your father's name.

You don't hear the door open or notice that you aren't alone until Potter comes to stand beside you, so close that your sides are almost touching.

"Go away."

"No, I don't think I will."

He responds to your glare with the same determined look he wears when he's playing Quidditch.

"How do you feel?" he asks softly, and what you're feeling right now is his gaze lingering on your mouth.

You suddenly feel uncomfortably warm.

"How do you _think_ I feel?"

He shifts from foot to foot.

"Someone once told me it's our capacity to feel that makes us human."

You laugh, harsh and mirthless.

"What a load of shit."

He shrugs, still looking at you.

Our capacity to feel. If that's what makes you human, then you don't want to _be_ human anymore. It hurts so much, like some small, deep wound that's slowly killing you. You would do anything, _anything_ to numb the pain for a while.

Even -

"Fuck me, Potter."

He takes a stumbling step backwards in surprise. "What?"

"I said, fuck me. Make this pain go away."

You both know it's what he wants.

_It's what _you_ want too, isn't it?_

(where did that thought come from?)

You move towards him, eyes locked on his as you reach out your hand towards the waistband of his jeans. For a moment his expression is frozen with indecision.

Then he seizes your wrist to stop you going any further.

"Not now. Not like this. This is fucked up, Malfoy."

"Is that right?"

Either he's the most unperceptive idiot in the world, or he's deliberately ignoring the danger in your voice. You can't tell which, and don't really care.

"Then I guess I'll just have to settle for _this_," you snarl, and use your free hand to hit him.

He reels from the punch, but doesn't let go of your arm. "Don't do this," he says quietly. "It won't help."

You respond by hitting him again, harder.

This time, he hits you back. You stagger backwards, cracking your head off the wall so hard that you see stars.

Panting, you lean there for a moment, feeling slightly drunk with dizziness. Then you use the wall to propel yourself towards him, and knock him to the ground.

"I hate you, Potter," you howl as you pummel him again and again. "I hate you I hate you I hate you …"

When you finally wear yourself out, you roll off him and sit with your back to him, hugging your knees. You don't feel better. Not at all.

You just feel sick.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Potter sit up, and you hear him scrabbling around for his glasses.

"I'm sorry."

You say it in such a small voice that you almost expect him not to hear.

"I'm not."

It's such an unexpected thing for him to say that you turn to look at him. He is holding his glasses, which are in two parts because one of the arms has snapped off. Even this fails to give you any satisfaction.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sorry. Not about your father. And I'm not sorry for you. But I understand. When Sirius died, I was angry. I trashed Dumbledore's office and yelled myself hoarse at him. But it didn't make me feel any better."

"So what changed? What stopped you being angry?"

He leans forward a little, and the moonlight shines across his face so that you can see his eyes, brilliant and intense, the colour of Avada Kedavra.

"Who says I stopped?"

He smiles, and you smile back.

You're not so very different, the two of you.

The pain is still there, but life goes on because it's what your father would have wanted.

Certain things become inexplicably important. You notice that you have memorised Potter's timetable so that you know where he will be at any time during the day. You also notice that at mealtimes you search for the seat with the best possible view of him.

Are you still searching for a weakness? Still looking for something to turn to your advantage?

Or is it just that old habits die hard?

_How do you feel? _he asked that night, staring at your mouth.

You felt confused, and you still do. Does that count?

He catches your eye at dinner, and you give him the finger. He retaliates with the international sign language for 'wanker'.

Potter is _so annoying_, and you can't stop thinking about him.

Granger watches you both, a smug expression on her face like she knows exactly what's going on.

As if.

You don't even understand it yourself.

The annual Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin comes around again, and for once your housemates aren't full of themselves. They know their only hope at winning will be sitting in the stands, and you take an immense amount of satisfaction from this.

All the same, it feels rather strange not to be thinking up yet another of your devious schemes like dressing up as a Dementor (you know you were only thirteen at the time, but _what the_ _hell_?) or writing a rude song about Weasley.

This year, you merely park yourself right in the middle of the Slytherin stands and cheer.

For Gryffindor.

Really loudly.

When Potter catches the Snitch, you celebrate almost as much as the Gryffindors. Amazingly, the new Slytherin Seeker was even worse than you'd imagined.

He's also a worse loser than you. And that's saying something.

Even though the game is over, he grabs a bat off one of the Beaters and hits a Bludger at Potter's head. You can almost hear the crack as it comes in contact, even above the noise of the crowd.

It's not right. If anyone should be hurting him, it's you.

Despite their protests, Madam Pomfrey lets you wait with Granger and Weasley at Potter's bedside. You have no idea why, because the woman has never made any effort to hide her dislike for you.

"Every year," Granger says to nobody in particular, her head in her hands. "Every bloody year."

Weasley is a simpler fellow. He merely glares at you, periodically cracking his knuckles. How this goon ever managed to get better marks than Crabbe and Goyle, you have no idea.

"Why are you here?" he demands, after several hours of glaring and cracking, as though he has been working up to it.

Granger gives him a Look, and when this doesn't stop him glowering, drags him over to the other side of the room. The words "I don't trust him!" are particularly audible during their stage-whispered discussion.

"Oh no!" you taunt. "Is Weasley frightened of the scary Slytherin?"

"Shut up, Malfoy!" say Granger and Weasley.

"Yeah Malfoy, shut up."

Potter has just woken up, and is looking around, perhaps slightly confused as to how he got here.

Granger and Weasley rush to his side, but it's you he's smiling at.

"It's not a Quidditch season unless I've been knocked unconscious at least once," he croaks, still looking rather bleary and dazed. "Don't look so worried."

You scowl at him.

"_Worried?_ Who's worried? I just came to check if Wallace had managed to do the job properly."

He laughs a little, then groans when he realises it hurts to move. "Apparently not. Though I think he did kill a few ribs during the fall. Be sure and thank him for me."

By this point, Weasley and Granger are looking utterly appalled by the direction the conversation is taking. Potter has a dark side, and they have no idea about it ...

Interesting.

Muttering ominously about blood clots brought on by head trauma, you take your leave. Potter waves weakly. Weasley and Granger ignore you.

On the way out of the infirmary, you glance in the mirror that hangs on the wall by the door.

He's right. You do look worried.

No. No, no, _no._

You never think about the other thing that happened the day your father died.

While you're not doing this, you never wonder if Potter ever thinks about it, never imagine (hopeful, scared, confused) that he does.

You also never think about doing it again, and would certainly never dream of thinking such a thing when you're with him. Not once have you looked at him, wondering what would happen if you just went over there and -

Furthermore, you would never dream of thinking about what might have taken place in the trophy room if he hadn't said no

No. You never, ever think about that.

Spring comes, and with it a spate of unnaturally warm weather. The other boys in your dormitory don't seem bothered by it, but you find the heat intolerable and cannot sleep.

Drapes drawn tightly around your bed, you lie completely naked on top of the covers, but you are still too warm. And so very bored. Why does night have to be so _dull?_

You reach out to scratch an itch on your stomach, then your hand trails lower, almost of its own will, to your cock. Almost immediately you become hard, and you think: well, why not?

Staring up at the canopy above your bed, you grasp your hard-on and begin to beat yourself off. You tease yourself in long, swift strokes, gently at first and then more firmly as you get into a rhythm. When you find yourself beginning to want to moan, you bite down on your lip, trying to control your harsh, noisy breathing.

Oh yes.This is what it's all about: the moment you completely lose control, lose your inhibitions, your mind completely blank.

Except it isn't blank.

From out of nowhere, your memory presents you with the image of Potter, black hair framed by grey snow-filled clouds, and the look in his eyes as he leans down to kiss you.

You are so shocked that you actually forget to breathe, so when you come – sudden and hard, harder than you can ever remember coming before – you almost black out. But you don't cry out. Instead, you bite your lip so hard it bleeds.

Sweaty and sticky and exhausted, you lie there, eyes wide open because you are terrified of what you'll see if you close them.

It's official. Potter has now actually managed to violate every area of your life. This is really getting quite ridiculous.

_How do you feel?_ he asked, and it never occurred to you to ask _him_.

By the time it begins to grow light outside, you know what you have to do.

Something has changed.

Usually it's him who comes and looks for you.

However, the next morning you go in search of Potter. It's so early that the castle is silent, and there are still House Elves dusting and polishing in the Great Hall.

You eventually find him sitting in the shade of a tree by the lake, his hair ruffled by the cool breeze that is blowing across the water. There's an open book on his lap, and a half-eaten apple on the ground beside him, but he is paying attention to neither.

"Hey," you say, and sit down next to him, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree trunk.

Potter starts slightly, and you realise he must have been miles away, lost in his thoughts.

"Oh … hey."

He smiles, his eyes bright, and you find yourself distracted already. How can you not have known? _How?_

Now that you are here, you realise you don't even know where to begin. This is all completely absurd and ridiculous, and you really shouldn't be here …

But absurd and ridiculous as it is, you have to do this. You have to know.

"What happened at Christmas," you say, staring at your knees. "When we …"

Kissed. When you _kissed._ You can't even say the word.

"Yeah?"

You don't look up. You can't, because you can imagine the look on his face and that's bad enough.

"I don't know what it was, or why we did it, but … I really want to do it again."

Draco Malfoy, smooth operator? In years to come, you'll look back on this and cringe. But the words are out there now and you can't take them back. You've never felt so self-conscious in your entire life as you sit here, looking anywhere but at him.

"Do you?" you ask, staring at his left ear.

What if he says no? What if he says yes?

"You stupid prat," he says.

This response takes you so much by surprise that you accidentally make eye contact. He is laughing silently, his shoulders shaking with it.

"Of course I do," he whispers, and kisses you, smiling against your mouth.

He is far more sure of himself than he was at Christmas. His lips are firm and smooth against yours, and he tastes of apples. You kiss him back hungrily, opening your mouth so he can push his tongue inside, an imitation of an even more intimate act.

This time, when you reach out for him he doesn't stop you.

There are so many reasons why this is a bad idea. You aren't going to become some Muggle-loving fool overnight, and you are _never _going to like his friends. He will always be the figurehead of a cause you were raised to despise, and you probably won't ever stop resenting him for it.

Kissing Harry is probably the most insane thing you've ever done, but you've never been so sure of anything in your life. You want this – you want _him _– and nothing else matters.

Yes, something has definitely changed.

_You._


End file.
